


Reforged

by ColdWarSaint



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soldiers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Recovery, German Brothers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rough Kissing, Violence, canada dies, gerita is referenced, villain canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-12-27 14:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdWarSaint/pseuds/ColdWarSaint
Summary: Ivan Braginski didn't realise he was sick of blood, sick of death, sick of the life he'd been trained to lead. Until he was tested in the form of a young man with sky blue eyes and a single-minded purpose: to end Ivan's life.Gilbert Beilschmidt was captured before the end of the war. Taken to some place without a name, without a real location, all torture seemed to fail. Until a diffrent man was sent in to deal with the unbreakable soldier, someone who didn't even like violence. Someone far more dangerous.





	1. Chapter 1

The man entered the room humming some just-familiar song, a steaming cup of what could either be coffee or hot chocolate in his left hand. Tall, that was a good word for the first impression, for the first once over. And then... Pretty in a rugged sort of way. He had dirty blonde hair in a short ponytail, most of it escaping to frame a chin dotted with stubble. Gilbert noted everything: the red flannel, the worn down jeans, the work boots that didn't look worked in. Most importantly, the eyes: lavender, shadowed by light bags. They held a light, a warmth, and Gilbert distrusted it immediately. He distrusted him completely.

"Good morning." The man said, his voice deeper than expected but also softer. As if the speaker were making an effort.

No, no, not today; Gilbert had been here far too long to play these games. "And who are you?"

"I'm Matthew—"

Unimportant. "Why did they send you?"

Then there was a pause, not a hesitation, but a deliberate action, a silence that existed to prove that it could, that the speaker controlled the information, that if he gave it, it would be a gift.

"They sent me," Matthew finally responded, "because I get things done."

He smiled softly, to himself, setting down his mug on the onlyt table in the room, the one just out of Gilbert's reach in the chains.

"Others have said that." Gilbert's teeth grit.

"Oh, yes." Matthew sounded almost distracted. He wasn't even looking at Gilbert. "I'm sure. I've heard about you, Gil." He glanced up. "Can I call you Gil?"

Gilbert knew that whatever he answered his desires would be ignored, and there was no point in suffering a defeat that small. So he shrugged. "I don't care what you call me. You're no different than anyone else."

Now Matthew was watching him, staring at him. "Do you like that I've heard of you, Gil? Does that please you? I've read your profile. It should please you a great deal."

"You'd have to mean something to me, " Gilbert snapped, pretending there was no truth to the newcomers words. As if he hadn't been pleased. As if he hadn't cared at all.

"Tell me something, Gil." Matthew broke eye contact. He began to search the room, strolling almost, searching the corners around the raised platform as though Gilbert might have hidden something. 

Gilbert waited for the rest of the sentence, eyes narrowed, picking apart the way that Matthew moved, the delicate way he ran his fingers over the brick walls. Each movement felt like something out of a dance, specifically choreographed, a show. For whose benefit? There was nothing else in the room besides the metal table, the instruments it contained, and the raised circular platform which Gilbert was held on. As if satisfied in proving this, Matthew came to a stop again after rounding the whole room, exactly where he'd started. He picked up the mug, coffee, Gilbert had surmised from the smell, and took a long sip. 

“Tell me where the others failed.” He leaned on the table, the tools that Gilbert had become intimately familiar with clinking slightly. 

_ Was that some kind of joke?  _ Gilbert scoffed. “You're about to find out.” Despite the shackles, despite the wounds they'd worn into his ankles and his wrists, he meant that sentiment with all his heart. 

And Matthew smiled like he got that subtext, like it was a joke between them. “No need for that, trial and error; I already have an answer.”

“You're  _ already _ wasting my time like the rest of them,” Gilbert said. Mind games pissed him off. 

“A waste of time?” Matthew laughed. “In this place? They really haven't done anything to you if you still think your ‘time’ is worth anything.” 

No response. Gilbert noticed that he had a scar over his lip and calluses on his hands. What could that be from? If he was like the others, Gilbert had a guess, and so far, they had  _ all _ been alike in their goals. 

“I know you're not shy, Gil. That's alright.” Another long drink of coffee. Matthew walked up to the platform, just out of Gilbert's range, and they both knew it. They both knew the  _ exact _ distance his lunge would take him so that his broken fingers nails would brush Matthew's cheek. 

“I'll tell you where the others went wrong, even though you already know,” Matthew continued. “They tortured you.” 

Gilbert barked a short, sharp laugh. “No shit. That's all you've got? That's what this place  _ does _ !”

Matthew held up one finger, tick-tock tick-tock. “Torture doesn't work on you. I can't believe it took so many others for us to come to that conclusion: it's really obvious. Even upon entering I could see it.” 

He was right, and it set Gilbert further on guard.  _ Where the hell is he going with this? If they stop fucking torturing me what's left? Are they finally going to man the fuck up and kill me?  _

_ _ “You like pain, don't you, Gil?” Matthew gave up something then, the slightest slip of the mask that Gilbert had been trying to place. And a very very cold feeling blossomed in his stomach. “You like what you can touch, what touches you. You can bear anything physical.”

“So then why don't you people just—”

“Kill you?” Matthew shook his head. “No. We don't lose to foot soldiers here, Gil.”

He stepped back from the platform and walked back to the table, downing his coffee before setting down the empty mug. Gilbert held his peace; this newcomer was too close to what was true for him to risk speaking. To risk confirming anything. 

“You're not going to survive just long enough to be a martyr,” Matthew said, leveling his eyes with Gilbert's. “And you're not going to get a heroic death marked by the courage you showed under pressure. If that was your hope, abandon it now.”

_ Not on your life, asshole. A lot of big talk for someone who hasn't done a damn thing to back it up.  _ Gilbert wasn't shaken by this; he had no reason to be. He would be fine. He'd survived everything else. He was fine. 

“Would you like,” Matthew tapped the mug, “some coffee, Gil?”

And Gilbert spit at his feet. Matthew was unperturbed. “I'll bring you some. I bet you're the kind of man who drinks coffee black, just to prove you can. Maybe I'll add cinnamon. I think you'd like that.” 

“ _ You _ don't know the first damned thing about me,” Gilbert hadn't been offered anything until this point, but he was ready to refuse. 

Matthew smiled. “Oh, Gil. That's where you're wrong.” 

_ The young man tasted blood, hot blood melting the snow around where he had fallen, and he laughed a wild laugh, red spittle flying from his lips. Above him, Ivan Braginski looked down, a fist slowly unclenching. Why, he thought, did it have to be this way? Why, he thought, did he stay here, taming this thing that they had raised.  _

_ _ _ “Calm down,”Ivan said to no avail. One day, he hoped, this man would listen. That was not today. The man below him caught Ivan's leg with his own, bringing him down into the snow. Ivan felt his anger spike, and he lashed out towards the sound of the laughter until the hands deflecting fists gave way to the feeling of a jawbone. The head snapping back did nothing for that incessant laughter, the man underneath him scoring a few of his own hits, significantly against Ivan's ribs.  _

_ _ _ “Stop!” Ivan shouted, using his legs to pin those of his opponent. For a moment, he thought it worked, and the man below him went still, tense, but still. Before he could draw a sigh of relief, however, he met those blue eyes, dead blue eyes, flat blue eyes. “Liste—” _

_ _ _ Too late. The young man had already attempted another lunge, nails scoring across Ivan's face, a maniacal grin splitting his face. Again, Ivan saw red. He growled, low in the back of his throat, and took the other man by the neck.  _

_ _ _ “I told you to calm down!” With each word Ivan's grip tightened, punctuating the sentiment by slamming him into the frozen earth. After a few minutes of struggle, the man's attacks slowed, then finally he began to go limp, pawing weakly at the hands around his windpipe. With a force of will that Ivan did not possess even a year ago, he rent himself free of the chokehold.  _

_ _ _ First a coughing, then a whimper, the man's blue eyes had sparked somewhere near oblivion, and they regarded Ivan now in light. With a very tired sigh, Ivan cupped a hand behind the man's head. He gently bent down to touch those cold, chapped lips. And he tasted blood.  _


	2. Chapter 2

The chains had been adjusted this way before, so that his arms were pulled back, immobilized, his knees on the platform, his legs strapped down. Never hurt his shoulders any less, not even after being here… _ God, how long has it been? _ He'd been counting using the beads on his dog tags, the way he'd been taught, the way he hadn't thought he would need. _ Around five months? _It didn't feel long enough, did it, for all the hell he'd been through…

“I'm not doing anything to the coffee, you know,” Matthew said, stepping over Gilbert's strapped down legs. “But,” he investigated the cot and toilet, the only two things on the platform, “you probably do know. It's not about being drugged or poisoned to you Gil, is it? It's about having the power to say no.”

Matthew leaned down and ran a finger gently over Gilbert's exposed arm. Despite himself, he shivered. 

“Ah,” Matthew said. “There it is. When was the last time someone touched you gently?” 

_When… _ it was before the war, wasn't it? _ And how long before the war? _Gilbert didn't let people near him; he didn't let people treat him like he needed anyone else. 

Matthew let his fingers trail up and down Gilbert's bare arms, raising goosebumps, sending shivers up and down his spine. _ What the fuck is this? _

“It's okay to be treated softly, Gil.” Matthew's hand caressed the sensitive back of his neck, and Gilbert flinched. Cursed himself for flinching. “Experiencing compassion doesn't make you weak. It's human to want someone to be gentle to you. It's human to feel good, to be receptive.” 

Gilbert scowled. “Just do whatever the hell it is you're going to do.”

Matthew giggled. He _ fucking _ giggled. “Alright, alright, Gil. Always in a rush, are you? What for! We have nothing but time here. Nowhere to go. No one to see.” Matthew laid his hands on Gilbert's shoulders, positioning himself squarely behind the albino’s back. 

_I do have places to be and people to see, you people have to know that if you know so much. If you would let me go and stop— _ Matthew began to rub his shoulders, and he tensed. _ — fucking with me. _

“Isn't this nice, Gil? It's nice to be taken care of.” Matthew purred. 

“No. I don't _ need _ to be taken care of— I don't _ want _ to be taken care of— and I don't need pity from someone who works _ here _ !” Gilbert would hurt him, if he could, he'd kill him. This was mocking. This was… this wasn't worse than torture. Because— because of _ course _ it wasn't worse! It felt amazing. It felt good, and that made it dangerous. He _ hated _ torture. He… _ I hate this, too… it's pathetic. _ But he didn't want _ this _ to stop.

“‘Works here’, soldier? What do your people do with prisoners of war? How many spouses have you widowed, how many children orphaned, how many lives have you taken? And for what? You are a tool employed to leverage other governments into obeying the interests of the economy.” Matthew rubbed down his spine. “And no doubt you have no regrets, Gil. I'm not asking you to. Or to re-examine your motives and their purity. I'm not going to tell you one of us is on the right side: I don't think that. I just want you to know, I don't have those regrets either.”

“You're asking me to try and _ understand _ you?” Gilbert demanded. _ Pathetic. _

“No, Gil, I'm just pointing out that you already do.” 

And what Gilbert wanted to do was scream at him, insult him, rage until his wrists bleed again, until his throat was hoarse and his body ached. But then Matthew would know he was having an effect, and that was unacceptable. So Gilbert said nothing; he didn't move. He'd always been strong through stoicism, but it was never satisfying the way spilled blood was. 

“You don't need to respond, that's alright. I can feel you react in your muscles. You're very tight.” Matthew hummed. “You should try to relax. I won't ever hurt you.” 

Gilbert didn't believe that for a moment. 

“I just want you to feel good,” Matthew continued. “Life has not been kind enough to you." 

"You really want that?

"I do.”

“Then_ unchain _me or stop lying,” Gilbert's voice came from the back of his throat, a low growl. 

Matthew's hands paused. Something in his voice changed. “Oh, Gil, you're even more fun than I imagined. We're going to be perfect for each other. You'll see. This will be perfect.”

_Often times the young man with the light brown skin would sit still, very still, unnaturally still, his blue eyes fixed on something Ivan couldn't see. Maybe something no one could see. At least, that was the merciful thing to assume. Ivan tried to look at the bright side since… _

_ Ivan had learned that these were not peaceful moments. He'd started to lean down, wrap his arms around the young man's shoulders, hug him tight enough that he couldn't breath a moment, until he gasped. _

_ "H-hey…” _

_ “Alfred.” Ivan was sick of blood, of pain. He hadn't known that yet, until it wasn't his own. He would repeat, “Alfred, it's okay.”_

_He'd never really been one for lying before, either. What was he supposed to say? Supposed to do? Sometimes he wanted to shoot Alfred in the back of the head, the regret over that night was so strong. _

_But Alfred laughed. After everything, when Ivan made the sort of wry comments he was used to no one hearing, Alfred would laugh a short, warm laugh. A genuine laugh. How could he? And… how could he… _

_ No one had ever taught Ivan how to be kind. What it meant to care, let alone love. He had no idea what he was doing. _


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert wrapped his hands around the warm mug, and cinnamon scented vapor tickled his nose. His wounds had closed. His bruises had healed. In the last four weeks, he felt himself fill out again. Sure, the feedings had been forced for the first two of those, but it felt good to feel healthy again._ God, I'd taken being healthy for granted _. And Matthew stood by, also holding a mug. 

"Still with the silent treatment?" Matthew asked. Gilbert took a drink of the coffee, glancing up not to meet the bastard's eyes but to look at the stitches above his left eye. "It is better than you throwing mugs, I admit, your aim is quite good." A slight pause. "Of course, that was also in your file. Sharp-shooter." 

_ What wasn't in that damned file _ . Gilbert had buried his rage. He'd tried to smooth out all of the losses he was suffering fighting Matthew: the force-feeding, the insults, the escaping. No. Not anymore. If Matthew wanted him to recover, fine. He'd recover. _ And he's going to regret it. I'm going to get my strength back, and he'll regret it. _

That was the game now. Gilbert was biding his time. So this guy thought he was actually winning, actually gaining any sort of trust. _ Good _ . Time to play smarter and not harder. When had he ever let emotion win? _ Or sentiment in? _

"I'm glad you like the coffee. I'm glad you're starting to come around, Gil. For whatever reason you're doing it, I'm happy with our progress." Matthew smiled, his perpetually tired eyes crinkling slightly. Despite his insistence that he be brought black coffee, Matthew always made it sweet, and Gilbert always liked it better that way. "You know, Gil, I'd even call us friends now."

_You'd fucking like that, you sick bastard. _ Gilbert continued to say nothing. He took another drink. Of course they weren't friends. They weren't anything. There was no relationship here. Everything was a game. A game between prisoner and captive. Gilbert told himself, _ it's almost strictly professional. _

"I hope you're starting to realize that, even if we're all that bad, it doesn't have to be something you suffer." Matthew shrugged, setting his mug down with a cool clink and moving to sit beside Gilbert, who allowed the proximity. "Don't you think, Gil, that change is human? That you were broken before we tried it?" Gilbert can feel his eyes burning into him. "Your nation isn't coming for you, Gil, and if they knew you were here, they'd cut their losses. They'll never return your loyalty." 

Gilbert's hands tightened around his mug, and he bit back a sharp remark, resisting the urge to attack the other man for his words. _ What do you and your people know about loyalty or honor? So they'd cut their losses. Good. So would I. They should move on. He… _ not for the first time Gilbert found himself wondering if Ludwig was in that file… _ should move on. _"

"I'm loyal to you, Gil. Haven't I been here every day?"

_That's your job, I'm not a fool. You're going to have to kill me, in the end. Kill me or let me go. This is a waste of your time. _

"I want to be good to you, Gil, in the way that your nation never was. I want you to be happy in the way you've always denied yourself. I want so much for you that being in the army never did for you. You're a man of ambition, Gil. You deserved to be more than how you were used. You could be great. I want to help you be great."

Now that was something. Gilbert had to admit it was the closest train of thought to his own back then. Sure, Matthew was being blatant in his wielding of it but— he always liked hearing about his own greatness, of which he was sure. _ Not that I need you to tell me. Not that I need any reassurance. _

Matthew reached over and squeezed Gilbert's shoulder, who tensed, even still, even after only receiving gentle contact for four weeks. "We should get you a haircut, Gil. I think you'd like that." 

_Cold, ever present cold. It was the best place Ivan could think to bring him. The most remote place that he knew. Isolation seemed best for the little demon he'd acquired. Somewhere Alfred couldn't run back to be people who'd twisted him up. And, maybe, maybe, Ivan hoped, somewhere where Alfred would realize that he needed Ivan to survive, that killing him would be killing himself, and that dependency might not be such a bad thing. _

_ Ivan had always been taught to hate the idea of interdependence. And he had. Until this young man needed someone to depend on. Until this young man was just like he was, and he saw in his reflection the need to be something radically different. _

_It was in this cold that Ivan felt Alfred shivering, shivering, and he waited. Slowly, Alfred twisted and turned himself until he was against the bigger man. _

_"Hey, Ivan," Alfred whispered. "D-did ya k-k-know? I've never, uh, n-never be-been so cold."_

_ Ivan pulled Alfred up against his body, into his own furs and blankets and felt the shivering subside. "I could have guessed," Ivan responded. Gently, he ran a hand over Alfred's back. "You are a small creature. That is why you get cold."_

_"I'm, uh, I'm really not _ _ that _ _ small, big guy. How do you, ya know, _ _ not _ _ get cold?" Alfred head-butted Ivan's chin slightly with his head, his tight curls getting a little out of hand at this point. _

_ "I do. I have been trained not to show it." Ivan thought a moment, and then his arms tightened around Alfred. "There is nothing wrong with showing it."_

_ He had been trying to tell Alfred the things that he never realized he should have been told. _


	4. Chapter 4

When it reached a year, Gilbert found himself numb to the anniversary. The night it passed he was not being held where he had been sleeping: he was not in chains. He woke up at midnight almost exactly, the moonlight shining down on the sheets his legs were tangled in.  _ A year _ … he thought. It meant nothing.  _ A year.  _ He was counting because he was a prisoner, he reminded himself. 

Beside him, Matthew looked calm, at peace in his sleep. Gilbert sat up, looked outside.  _ Outside. _ It'd been a year since he'd seen it. And before he'd fallen asleep he hadn't exactly been… 

Gilbert ran his fingers over the bite marks on his collarbone and shoulders, regarded the dark bruises across his torso with the same numbness.  _ Probably wasn't a great idea.  _ For a few months now, he'd been unchained, pacing the room. And for a few months before that, Matthew had been pushing the boundaries of the way he touched.  _ He wanted this the whole time…  _ It'd felt like a burst, the action, the first time Matthew had been rough with him. They were at once fighting and— Gilbert sighed.  _ What the fuck did I agree to last night?  _

Matthew's hands on his wrists, his knee between his legs, the feeling of teeth, the feeling of being just too weak to stop him, and the slight thrill he felt at that feeling.  _ God, I'm sore.  _ How long had they been at each other? How many times—  _ I should kill him now. I should try to get away.  _ Gilbert ran a finger over the ridges of Matthew's spine. He lay back down.  _ One year. A whole year.  _

And for seven months it had been… nice. Gilbert waited to feel anger, but he didn't. He felt nothing. He'd felt so much just hours ago. Matthew told him that he might even be able to see his family again. That he could live his life again. That it didn't have to be like this between them. That they could be more. 

_ Matthew said. Matthew said. Matthew said.  _ That's all that ran through his head anymore. The only voice he heard.  _ We've been playing this game a while now.  _ Who was winning? He wasn't sure. 

He turned to stare outside, to stare at the moon.  _ Where even am I? Whose moon is this?  _ For the first time in a year, he could be sharing something with the people he'd left behind. He felt something. He smiled. 

_ "Alfred— Alfred, no!" Ivan didn't know, exactly, what set him off. He didn't understand, either, how to bring him back easily. The transformation, though, that he was getting ahold of. It started with silence, for someone who was never silent.  _

_ There was never a fight, a struggle, he'd just go very still, as though he'd been shot dead where he stood. When Ivan grabbed him, when he noticed, the light was gone from his blue eyes, his face blank. "No, Alfred. Stop."  _

_ Talking to him when he flipped never helped. Not that he normally had time to reason. Alfred was extremely volatile after the transformation. He attacked Ivan after a moment of cold consideration, correctly identifying him as an enemy to the people who had trained him. There was no stopping it once it began, nothing short of forcing Alfred into submission.  _

_ And he had tried. He'd much rather use the kind of words he thought he should be than punishing the younger man. But they'd programmed Alfred too well. Undoing that—  _

_ So much blood. Ivan was sick of blood; he was sick of sadism. At first, he relished it, the punishment of someone who tried to hurt him. He'd always liked violence, but lately… he was reconsidering the way he'd lived his life. _

_ Before the sound of something breaking made his stomach twist, he'd thought he was self-made. Always following orders, always relying on training. It was time, he'd decided, that night, to stop pretending that he was apart from others and embrace the idea of codependency.  _

_ "Alfred!" Ivan had given up trying to reason after the first few months. He'd quit speaking at all.  _

_ Alfred was laughing again. Infuriating. Infuriating! "Why do you want me to kill you, little one?" Ivan demanded. Alfred got in a few hits that set off stars behind his eyelids, and Ivan grit his teeth, cursing under his breath in Russian. Cursing this demon. _

_ To his surprise, Alfred stopped. His flat blue eyes fixated on Ivan's mouth. Then he squinted. <What did you call me?> Alfred said in Russian.  _

_ So it was that simple. Ivan grimaced. This persona must not even understand English. Everything up to this point had been pointless. Of course. <Demon.> _

_ <Are you angry that I'm learning. Every fight. I'm learning from you. You can not win forever.>  _

_ Ivan realized that speaking was going to make this worse. He had no response for the other man. No reason to fuel the fire. After another blow or two, Ivan managed to get Alfred's legs out from under him so that he could pin them.  _

_ <You're the demon.> Alfred was saying. <You'll always be the demon.>  _

_ Ivan struggled to pin his arms down, legs kept under his weight. Once he had him relatively still, Ivan forced the smaller man's head back, exposing his throat.  _

_ <Demon. Demon. Demon.>  _

_ Ivan laid his teeth against Alfred's throat and felt his body coil tightly, breath catching in a snarl.  _

_ <Demon!> _

_ He applied pressure with his teeth.  _

_ <Demon! Demon!>  _

_ He tasted blood.  _

_ <You…> _

_ Alfred shuddered, he went limp. "Wait… stop, Ivan…" _

_ Ivan sat up, looking down to see those blue eyes had sparked again. That they had filled with tears. With a sigh, Ivan moved off of Alfred's legs and pulled the younger man up.  _

_ "I'm sorry Ivan…" _

_ "I know." _

_ Alfred sank against Ivan's bulk, something he'd only recently started to do. "I'm sorry. It's not… I'm sorry, I, uh, I can't. I-I'm— " Alfred coughed. Ivan rubbed his back. There was blood. Blood. Always more blood. So much blood.  _

_ "It speaks Russian." _

_ Alfred took a shaky breath, diverted his eyes, searched the snow below them. "... I guess… yeah... that makes… s-sense."  _

_ Ivan did not press him for details. After a long moment, and more coughing, Ivan felt the arms around him tighten. In a hoarse whisper, Alfred asked, "is there a way… uhm… is there a way, big guy, it could… ya know… hurt… less?"  _

_ An unfamiliar feeling filled Ivan's chest then, like he was breathing but at the same time drowning. In that moment, what was previously impossible became simple. "Of course. For you, little creature, I will no longer let you hurt."  _

_ Alfred smiled. Ivan could breathe again.  _


	5. Chapter 5

Coffee scented vapor, tinged with cinnamon, sweet like always, Gilbert was waiting for his assignment. Waiting for orders. The rooms were all white, sterile. Just like his uniform, pressed. Like this was something— Gilbert scoffed—  _ clean.  _

_ Not that anything was clean when I was a soldier. We just pretended: set up a bureaucracy. Set up a whole world of regulations. To kill.  _

He killed now. With extreme efficiency. With greater leeway than he'd ever had as a soldier. He received targets, and he executed them, and he received benefits. Matthew told him he wasn't even a prisoner anymore. 

The first sip of coffee. Gilbert sighed.  _ But when will I see Ludwig? Or Francis?  _ It'd been a long time. They were soldiers, too.  _ No guarantee.  _

The door opened and Matthew entered, settling down beside Gilbert, hand trailing along his lean shoulders. "Good morning, dear," Matthew said, and Gilbert responded with a twitch of his mouth. His eyes fell on the file in Matthew's lap. 

_ Little Brother? What the hell does that mean _ ? 

Matthew noticed the way his eyebrows drew together ever so slightly, and he smiled a warm smile. "This is a special project, Gil. I've been waiting to give this one to you because so many people have failed me, but you're special." 

"'Course," Gilbert replied, taking the file. "I'm the best."

"Yes, you are. I mean that. I wouldn't trust anyone else with this." Matthew put an arm around Gilbert's shoulders, leaning in to look at the file with him. "This little traitor, my first real project, was sent on a mission and never came back." 

"He's not dead?" 

Matthew, in that moment, came the closest to real anger that Gilbert had ever seen outside of the primal kind of rage he seemed to possess in bed, where he drew blood. "No. He's not dead." 

"You want me to kill—"

"Bring him back." 

Gilbert shrugged.  _ Sounds easier than what I've been doing.  _ "Sure." 

And he felt Matthew's lips on his cheek, on his neck. "Kill anyone else he's with." 

_ Anyone he's with?  _ _ Sounds specific. Why is there always a fucking catch with you?  _ There wasn't much in the file. Gilbert looked into the young man's sky blue eyes. The picture made them look flat, dead. Briefly, he wondered if that's the way he would look, in his own file. 

_ Would? Get a grip, Gil.  _ "What's my time frame?" 

"Two weeks." 

_ That long?  _ "Easy."  _ That's too long for a normal job. For some kid.  _ "I won't need half the time." 

"Oh, Gil." A twisted kind of look spread over Matthew's face, like he wanted scowl but was forcing a smile. "I hope you do. For your sake." Matthew squeezed Gilbert's arm. "For  _ our _ sake." 

_ Keeping a promise was never as easy as making one. So he'd rarely made promises. Not that he was one for keeping his word. This one proved particularly difficult. Alfred remained flipped for a record two days and nights before Ivan managed to figure something out that did not involve violence— on his part.  _

_ By the time he had the little demon tightly wrapped up in the furs and blankets they slept in, Ivan was bleeding patterns on the fabric. Never did he think this would be what he used his endurance training for. Alfred showed no signs of tiring. No signs of breaking. Like violence incarnate. And he spoke Russian fluidly, cursing Ivan, pushing him to snap, to compromise his promise. But every time Alfred swore that he hated Ivan either way, that he would always hate Ivan, that his little promise was meaningless, it only strengthened the Russian's resolve.  _

_ Now he lay almost full body on top of the bundled demon, inhibiting his movements so that he struggled only in little spasms. Eventually, bound up like this, Alfred's struggles calmed. Ivan settled as well, staring into the glass of the younger man's eyes.  _

_ "Alfred," Ivan said, struck by inspiration, "come back now."  _

_ The demon scowled. Ivan did not entertain that emotion.  _

_ "Alfred," he repeated, "how do you feel?"  _

_ "Warm." In English. As though he were startled by his own words. And then his face crinkled up into a smile.  _

_ "Good." Ivan's entire being relaxed to the tune of Alfred's voice.  _

_ "Hey, ya look, uh, terrible, big guy."  _

_ "Yes." Ivan gently removed himself, stretching his legs. "You are quite the opponent."  _

_ "I-I'm sorry." Alfred wriggled himself free of the blankets, crawling out into the tent.  _

_ Ivan shook his head. "Do not worry about that. What you need to worry about is rest. We are both exhausted. It has been two days."  _

_ "But…" Alfred sighed. "Okay. Uhm. Yeah. I do feel worn out, I guess."  _

_ Now that he had a moment to himself, promise intact, Ivan retreated to the back of the tent where he cleaned himself up, wiping up the blood and bandaging wounds. He was pleased: for the first time in a long time he felt good about himself. This time, the blood was earned. Hard spent.  _

_ Once he was well enough to return to Alfred, he shifted the half-alseep young man into his arms and held him close. "You are safe."  _

_ Alfred smiled sleepily. Ivan had never protected anyone; he had been the one that inspired fear, that took loved ones to the grave. All of his time had been spent focused in death. _

> _ And now, finally, he felt alive.  _


	6. Chapter 6

Gilbert crested the hill, sinking up to the knee in snow. Wind whipped across the icy landscape, pulling at his white camouflage, trying to find any exposed skin. No luck. Every inch was covered.  _ Could use a better way to clear these damn goggles.  _ He took a minute to search the white for any sign of life. It'd been hours since he was air-dropped in, and he didn't feel like he'd gone far. 

_ God damn blizzard _ . What a miserable place to live.  _ Maybe they died in this weather! _ Gilbert grimaced and trudged on. Anything, any sign of life would be welcome.  _ Maybe this was why I was given so much time.  _ The thought of playing survival in the mountains was irritating, to say the least. 

Another hour or so saw him checking the position of the sun through a break in the storm. It looked more and more like he was going to have to stop, to set up a camp. Gilbert gave a frustrated huff of breath.  _ All this for some kid. Matthew had better appreciate what I go through.  _ Why did he care so much, what Matthew appreciated?

Not a minute after his decision to stop, he saw it. Smoke. He thought he was hallucinating out of desperation for a moment. Then there it was again. He picked his backpack up out of the snow where he had just dropped it. 

"I'll be damned."

The snow had stopped, the wind had changed.  _ Luck, more than anything.  _ The same kind of bad luck that got him caught.  _ Too bad for you, Alfred.  _ A grin broke across his cold face _ . Too bad for you.  _

Ivan heard footsteps crunching through the snow, the person approaching clearly making no attempt to conceal themselves, and every sense he had lit up  _ danger.  _

"Alfred." His tone of voice conveyed enough that the younger man froze. "We have company." 

"Oh…" He bit his lip; Ivan could see him in the corner of his eye, could see the guilt and fear that flashed across his face. And, in part, Ivan understood how he must have known this was why they were hiding, this was what they were waiting for. On the other hand, he felt Alfred should have a little more confidence in his lover. Ivan, not for the first time, was relieved to meet a challenge. 

"Stay behind me." 

Alfred nodded, moving behind Ivan. He looked drawn, and he was getting quiet. There wasn't anything to be done about the possibility of transition now. Setting his shoulders, Ivan stepped outside to confront whoever it was that had arrived. 

The figure in white camouflage, covered head to toe, carried a rifle across his shoulders. His. That was an assumption that could prove incorrect. 

<What do you want?> Ivan asked, speaking in Russian. 

In response, the figure unslung the rifle from their shoulder. Ivan reacted to the movement just as quickly, basically flying across the snow to knock the hand of the person from the barrel, jerking that arm to the side before trying to get to the trigger finger. Above them, the weapon fired, muted in the snowy valley, and Ivan pressed his attacker back, to the ground. He could feel the sting of it where the camo-clad person was kicking him, trying to gain some leverage, but all motion was limited by the layers of fabric. He got the weapon away from the person. He threw it into the snow. While this happened, his opponent found the opening to crack Ivan across the face with a fist, yanking their other arm free. 

"Fuck—" the man, he was a man, growled, failing to free his pinned leg from Ivan's weight. Instead groping around his thigh a minute to free a knife. 

The blade stung Ivan's forearm, which he braced against the man's shoulder, trying to limit the mobility of his swing. To Ivan, such questions as  _ why are you here?  _ and  _ who sent you want to kill Alfred?  _ were pointless as much as redundant. This man was a threat, and he eliminated threats. Nothing else mattered. 

Until Alfred. Who, at that moment, was standing outside the tent, his eyes blank, fixed on the conflict. Ivan had seen him exit the tent, had seen him freeze. He figured the flip was coming. Nothing could be done about it now. 

Ivan has managed to get the knife away from his attacker, at the expense of it sinking a few inches into the muscle at the base of his neck, and he pinned that arm down. Both were breathing hard now, and Ivan was trying to figure out a way he could most effectively break this man's neck before Alfred—

Ah, too late for such thoughts. The devil within Alfred was now more powerful than his will, and it, unfortunately, still seemed programmed to kill Ivan at any expense. Ivan felt Alfred hit him, felt Alfred knock him loose from his hold on the attacker, and knew immediately that he could not win a fight against them both. There was only one thing that could be done, in that case: Ivan hoped against his own promise that this man really was here to kill Alfred. 

Ivan let go of the attacker, let him roll back into the snow before straightening up. He let him adjust himself, searching the snow for his rifle before finding the knife instead. He even let him lunge at Alfred. And, when Alfred blocked his arm, looked him up and down, and cocked his head, Ivan sat back to watch. 

<Who are you supposed to be?> Alfred asked, looking like he should be cold in Ivan's much-too-large sweater and his own fitted white camouflage pants— identical to the intruder's. 

Ivan felt obligated to translate. "He asks why you are here." 

The man shifted his weight to hit Alfred from the other side, but Alfred anticipated this move and fluidly blocked that punch, twisting the knife away from him and shoving him to the ground with a delighted laugh. 

<They're getting worse at this. Why are you trying to kill me, comrade?> It was a mocking tone, one Ivan was familiar with. 

"He mocks you, calls you comrade, but he means you are weak and not of his caliber as a fighter. It is implied you are from the same place." 

The man for whom he was translating, who may not have even spoken English, got himself back on his feet: he bladed his body and raised his fists. Alfred just laughed. <Matthew is not even trying.> 

At that name, the man tensed up, and Ivan's eyes narrowed. While the attacker lunged forward, Ivan was standing up. Matthew. Alfred had never said that name before. And what a reaction it had. 

Invigorated by the idea that there was finally someone to be blamed, someone he  _ could _ hurt, Ivan waded into the fray. He picked up Alfred with one arm, slinging him over a shoulder, and then picked up the other man by his wrist, hoisting him up off the ground. Then, kicking, shouting, and fighting, Ivan dragged them to the tent. He threw them both to the ground, and considered his situation. Neither were going to give up without a life or death struggle. 

They were both standing to fight again, now. Ivan sighed. 

<Alfred,> he barked, <be still.> 

The demon scoffed. <And why should I listen to—> 

Ivan pulled him forward so that he could kiss him once. A rough kiss, as he was also blocking a kick from the assailant to his left. 

<Still.> 

This time the demon obeyed, closing his eyes. Ivan could focus on securing the real threat. Still bulky and overencumbered, fighting in an environment that he was clearly not familiar with, the attacker did not last long before Ivan again had him on the ground. Once there, Ivan bound him tightly, lending no forgiveness in terms of slack. 

He kneeled down, pulling the goggles from the man's eyes, the mask down from around his mouth and nose. Being greeted by red startled him, for a moment Ivan wondered why the fates had decided he must be plagued with demons. A punishment for how he himself had so long been one?

The man scowled. His mouth was bleeding, lip split. Ivan searched his face and saw both that this would not be an easy man to break and that he was already broken. 

"Fuck you," the man said. 

So be it. 

_ How do I keep getting into this situation?  _ He was supposed to go home over a year ago. The war was over!  _ And I have to deal with some freak who Matthew didn't fucking tell me about.  _ And the kid, he knew the kid could be triggered, had this training, but— Gilbert got it now. He understood the look that he'd been given with his orders. 

He was so, so angry at Matthew. There was no reason he should have gone into this blind. There was no reason that Matthew should have hid _ anything _ from him. That's why he was in this situation.  _ I'm going to fucking die. Fuck. God damn it.  _ And why? What was the point? Who was he dying for? When it came to his nation he knew. He could point to his little brother. But for Matthew? 

Warily, Gilbert watched the ridiculously tall man who had tied him up go back to Alfred and then… hug him. Gilbert licked the blood from his lip.  _ What the hell is going on?  _

"It is okay. You are safe, little creature," the man told Gilbert's target. And Alfred melted against him. 

Gilbert spit. 

"I'm… I'm sorry," Alfred responded. His voice was so much softer than it had been. "He's here, uhm, for me, isn't he?" 

"Yes. But we are going to fix things."

_ Ha. _

Ivan held Alfred out at arm's length, taking a moment to study him. Carefully he asked, "do you know a man named Matthew?" 

The result was instantaneous. Alfred flinched, fingers going white clutching Ivan's arms. "I- I- I- I- I—" 

"That is a yes. He did this to you, did he not?" 

_ I could answer that question.  _ Now he was the one who had read the files, who knew more than the people he was…  _ and what exactly has Matthew done to me? Not that.  _

Alfred was shaking. He managed to nod his head. With a sickening gentleness, Ivan returned the younger man into his arms, tucked against his chest. Then those cold eyes locked on to Gilbert's, and all that gentleness was gone. 

"I was going to break your neck. Now you can be useful. I want to know about Matthew," Ivan said, very calmly, and without any doubt in his voice. "Tell me where he is, how I can find him, and I will go myself and kill him." 

The straightforward nature of the comment was… refreshing. Still, Gilbert couldn't be sure of anyone's honesty. He had no capacity for trust. "I'm not a pawn," he snapped. 

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Untrue. You are Matthew's pawn." 

Anger at the accusation, despite whatever truths about it Gilbert could recognize, filled him. "Then go ahead and  _ fucking kill me."  _ That had to be better. Better than giving in.  _ Again. _

Ivan released Alfred. He was intending to carry out his threat without any intention of allowing a last minute recourse— which Gilbert would have never attempted— when Alfred grabbed his arm and stopped him moving as though they were the same size. 

"Wait! Wait, Ivan… don't." 

At those words, the tall man sighed. A deep, tired sound. One Gilbert felt, surprising himself, at an emotional level. 

Alfred continued, "I-I know what Matthew can do to people… okay? He's, uh, he's  _ really _ good and— and it's not this guy's fault!" 

That just made Gilbert angrier.  _ Of course it's my own god damned fault! I could have fought a lot fucking harder. I chose this, Matthew be damned. It was a better fucking path.  _ "I chose to work for Matthew. I'm here because I  _ chose _ to take you back to him, kid." 

And then Alfred looked at him in pity.  _ Pity!  _ He had the  _ nerve _ to reply, "It's not your fault, and— and it sucks! I'm sorry. I didn't  _ mean _ to attack you! I—  _ I _ didn't have a choice! And… and we want to help." 

"Help?" Gilbert laughed, a bitter and hard sound.  _ Isn't that just what Matthew keeps telling me?  _ "So you're weak then, kid. I could have walked away. I  _ want _ you captured." 

"Enough," Ivan cut through their conversation with a sharp tone. "I do not care for pointless arguments. Alfred wants you alive. So you will stay alive. If you do not care to tell me where Matthew is, we will wait for another to be sent for you." 

_ What? That's insane.  _ "I'm going to kill you if you keep me here. You think you can beat everyone sent after you?" 

Ivan shrugged. "Right now I do not have to worry about everyone." He knelt down and studied Gilbert. "If you are capable of killing me, I will not begrudge you the honor." And then he gagged the other man. 


	7. Chapter 7

When Ivan told Gilbert, as he had since learned was the man's name, that he did not care one way or the other about his loyalties, he meant that. There were a great deal of things he did not have the energy nor the will to care for, and it was not difficult for Gilbert to be one of them. What he concerned himself with about the man were practical things: he made sure that he was adequately fed— this disrupted the hunt he normally took with Alfred, as one of them remained to watch the man—, that he was taken to relieve himself at the right times, and even that he was allowed to walk around the tent and stretch his arms at alternating points of the day. Ivan handled any of the tasks that involved unbinding the prisoner in any way. He left Alfred to remain on guard when that proximity wasn't necessary. Overall, he felt that this new prisoner was just another compromise he made for Alfred, and since he had already changed so much on the man's behalf, it was not a difficult one to make. 

For the most part, he felt Gilbert's eyes on him constantly. When he was preparing food, when he was carving wood with the large knife he always carried, when he was playing cards with Alfred, and any time he entered or exited the tent. Even when he made love to Alfred under the cover of dark, he could feel the burning presence of those eyes. This did not bother him; in fact, he thought it must be boring to sit as still as Gilbert did, as quietly as he did. He knew it was: he recognized both the hatred burning within the younger man, and the type of willpower it took to maintain that level of stillness in the face of it. Never did he speak to Gilbert, although he was sure Alfred did. 

When Gilbert finally asked, "why does Matthew want you dead?" 

Ivan answered without hesitation, "I was an agent of the Russian government for a long time. I hunted and killed spies with great efficiency: any foriegn intelligence operatives. I made many enemies. That is something I think you knew. As for Matthew, I believe he is angry that Alfred is still here." 

All of the prisoner's questions were answered with the same frank honesty. While Ivan had a strong claim to many sins, lying was not one of them: he didn't see the point in it.

Gilbert asked him about his skills, about Alfred's personality and how it was split, about what he used to do, about the night he met Alfred and how he had changed. And one night he asked, "Do you love him?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" There was a keen sense of mockery to the question. 

That was not why Ivan took a moment to think. Why indeed? Was it because of the way he laughed and the way he made Ivan laugh? Those sky blue eyes and the hope they still contained despite what he'd been through? Was it because he actually listened to Ivan and made him feel like he was a person and not a machine? Finally, Ivan settled on, "because no one else had before, and it is something he deserved." 

The answer seemed to stun the other man, who clearly had some retort ready that died away. Ivan read something in the fire of his eyes that was not anger, not hate for once, and he was also surprised. How alike he and this person were… he wondered how many others he had passed by on the street every day of his life with whom he shared so much while he felt so isolated. He wondered how many eyes he'd looked into without a sense of humanity between them, and he felt that as much as he still regretted the night he didn't kill Alfred: he was grateful. 

After that seed was planted, it was as though all of the other man's actions made sense. So much so that when Gilbert snapped that  _ I don't see why you fucking care— _ Ivan reached out to touch his shoulder. Blazing red met cool twilight and they held, neither flinching. It was worse, Ivan knew, to be strong when you were also broken. To feel nothing short of rage when anyone dared to point out all the pieces you'd worked so hard to gather didn't make a whole. 

Ivan sighed. Where did the delight go with making others suffer what he had? He let his arm drop. "It appears, Gilbert, that I do." Another demon. 

He felt a stab of resentment. 

"Tell me if this is too tight." That was the first thing that Ivan told him after the gag was removed.  _ As if you care _ . Gilbert had glared. Just glared. Bidding time. The lack of an answer didn't bother his newest captor. Something he was getting really  _ fucking _ sick of.

"Anything you do not tell me I will assume. If you want something, you will have to speak," Ivan continued. 

Gilbert licked his lips, chapped with dried blood. "I want out." 

"Will you try to kill us?"

"Yes."

"Then you will not be freed." Ivan spoke without any sort of intonation. If Gilbert was suspicious at first of his honesty, and he always was, he learned not to be. 

Ivan answered every question.  _ Whole hell of a lot more useful than Matthew ever fucking was. _ The only kind of "deception" he saw was in the difference between the indifferent way he was treated versus the tender way Ivan took care of Matthew pet project. And that wasn't really lying was it? Which was infuriating in the way that Gilbert couldn't hate this guy for playing games. And he  _ did _ want to hate him. 

Alfred sure drove him crazy though, the little bastard trying to comfort him,  _ pity  _ him. Always saying that  _ he understood what Matthew was like. _ The only reason Gilbert wasn't harsher was because he knew that flipping the idiot kid would mean he was killed. Ivan had said as much. Ivan had also said he didn't care one way or the other. Gilbert believed that. 

_ Still, this is going to make it harder for me to kill that son of bitch when I have to.  _ Sometimes, Alfred even reminded him of his friends, and—  _ no, don't start with that shit. You're a professional.  _ What did that even mean? For all that Matthew told him he belonged where he was, with Matthew, and for all that Matthew told him there was greatness and power in what he was doing… he felt clearer with these people who were just as likely to kill him but wouldn't pretend to cry about it. 

And just what the hell were they even playing at? He watched the kid flip, watched him attack Ivan. And what did Ivan do? Just... wrapped him up in blankets and spoke to him until he was back. Why the hell did  _ that  _ have any right to work? And how could someone like that even really be loved? 

Some nights he watched the two shift, barely able to make out their forms through the dark, the moonlight not piercing the tent, and he could see them  _ move  _ together. Hear the way that Alfred giggled, soft breath and gentle moans that were as remote from the way Matthew touched him as his old life seemed from this. It was something he never brought up. For whatever  _ fucking  _ reason it just felt too… private.  _ How private could it be we're all in the same God damn tent, they know I'm here!  _ Still. He found other ways to make remarks. Not that he was ever punished. Or even acknowledged half the time. 

The night that Ivan said he cared, broke character to say  _ apparently, Gilbert, I do,  _ the albino man recoiled like a snake. "What the  _ fuck _ does that mean?" Gilbert snapped.

Ivan just sighed. A weirdly angry sigh, for what he said, and stood. 

"Wait!" Gilbert straightened up. "Let me out," he said, again. For what must have been the twentieth time. 

As always, Ivan replied, "will you try to kill us?"

This time, Gilbert lied. "No." At least. He meant it to be a lie. But when Ivan actually turned around and untied his bonds, he froze. 

"What— are you  _ stupid _ ?" he demanded of Ivan. "What if I was  _ lying? _ "

The much taller man seemed amused. "I have always trusted actions more than words. If you are lying, this way it will be apparent. I do not need to rely on my own assumptions now. I can know." 

Gilbert squinted. "You— you—" 

"I am holding you to your word, yes."

Gilbert blinked. Gingerly, he stood up, rubbed his arms.  _ What kind of trap is this?? Is he calling me dishonorable if I attack him??  _ He met Ivan's eyes. "You're not going to guilt me out of your death." 

Ivan smiled. "Guilt is for men of morals. I subscribe no value to your action. If I were you, I would kill. But I also would not have lied. I do not know your loyalties: I do not know you. Anything is possible. And I am ready." 

_ Ah, that's it then.  _ "You're that confident." 

"Yes." 

_ That could be a weakness _ . And Gilbert might have even seriously have entertained that idea if he didn't know first hand how justified that confidence was. 

So just what the hell was he supposed to do now? Of course he wanted to kill the guy for holding him prisoner.  _ For Matthew? _ Sure. He’d let Matthew give him this power, hadn’t he—  _ why the hell is Ivan being the honest one then, when he has so much less of a reason to trust me.  _ Oh, and wasn’t that a whole thing in of itself. Had Matthew ever  _ really _ trusted him?  _ Would he have sent somen he didn’t trust on a special mission?  _ But didn't he also send in Alfred. And now he wanted his pet project back. Probably not for good reason. 

As Gilbert wondered if Matthew had also told Alfred he’d never hurt him, he found he already knew—  _ He did. I never really fucking beleived that, though, did I? I’m not surprised.  _ But  _ every _ time Matthew had sent him out he’d come _ back _ . 

Struck by the thought, Gilbert asked, “if I don’t kill you, would you just let me leave?”

“No,” Ivan replied after a moment of thought. “I am waiting for your replacement. You will not tell me where Matthew is. My goal is to find Matthew, currently. Once that is done, you will be allowed to do what you like.” 

That lined up. Gilbert wanted to say that all these straight answers were pissing him off, but they weren’t really. None of  _ this _ was. Not the way that Ivan carefully tucket blankets around him, fed him, made sure he was clean; it was all done very economically. Done because it was what had to be done. He got it: he got it like he’d gotten the torture. He understood Ivan, and he hadn’t gotten any more angry than he had been since he was  _ first _ captured. 

Things made sense again, and the way he’d learned to think outside of sense was starting to bite into his self.  _ Like more damned chains.  _

“You have failed at your mission, have you not?” Ivan broke through those thoughts. 

At the accusation, Gilbert tried to drawn himself up only to find that they had been facing off the entire time, Ivan surveying him with cool caution. 

“I could _ still _ kill you, that’s not going to fucking stop me,” Gilbert snapped. 

Ivan shook his head, slow, deliberate. “Not my point. Recall, I did what you did, and longer. Your timeline. What was it?”

Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “Two weeks.” 

Ivan shrugged “Then you have failed. I want to know what that means for you. If you have forgiveness. Failure, to me, meant death.” 

Gilbert scoffed. “You expect me to believe you’ve  _ never _ failed.” 

“Ah.” Ivan relaxed then; he even turned his back to put away the ropes he had been using on Gilbert. “Am I still working? Have I returned to my employers? Alfred is my failure.”

When it was Matthew, it was coy, any vulnerability. This felt like…  _ No. No one like Ivan trusts.  _ “He attacked  _ you _ .” 

“He is my redemption then.” 

Before Gilbert could response—  _ could attack _ — the subject of their conversation ducked back into the tent from his task to fetch water for them, pulling his set of the same googles Gilbert had been given off his head and freeing his face from Ivan’s scarf. Upon seeing Gilbert free, he had the wrong reaction and laughed. It was a sound of pure delight; it was completely out of place ringing out across the landscape they defined by survival. Ivan turned towards the sound like it was the sun. Gilbert flinched as though Alfred had taken a shot at him. 

And then Alfred, proving he was an idiot, moved as though to hug Gilbert and was— for his own sake— swept off course by the Russian. 

“Let us keep you out of trouble, little one.” And Ivan kissed his forehead so tenderly Gilbert almost looked away. 

“This is good, though!” Alfred exclaimed. “Like, a step forward!”

“We will see.” Ivan let Alfred down. Then those cool eyes met Gilbert’s. “We will see.” 

  
  


Now that Gilbert was no longer in bondage, Ivan no longer let him alone. For the demon’s part, he took no action against them even when they slept— which Ivan did not do for a few nights, Alfred tight in his arms. Gilbert scoffed at their not re-tying him for the night: pure stupidity, he called it. But he didn’t attempt to take advantage for his dismissiveness. Ivan would have liked to think this was a response to fear, to the knowledge that Gilbert would lose most any fight he staged. But he was not that blinded by pride. Gilbert wanted to kill him as much as he was truly in control of his situation, and he’d had the unfortunate realization that the two may be linked. The same as Ivan had sacrificed his old self for Alfred. The difference was in their fight. As a prisoner, Gilbert could still lash out, where Ivan had been forced to turn his blade inward. 

Ivan felt everything now, despite the fact that he was the captor keeping tabs, as though Gilbert was haunting him. A pale reflection of the bloodlust he’d only recently gotten under control, reminding him that his change was not yet over for the need to cement it. 

Ivan had not been a social man prior to this. 

He’d mostly tamed one demon. He proceeded with this one in that same vein, ignoring his instincts, which he knew were drilled, and took Gilbert hunting. 

“Why?” Gilbert demanded of the weapon he was handed. 

That was the first question Ivan did not answer. Because he knew that to explain the process of respect to another would be to cheapen it. The question was not asked again. 

He was not shot in the back. As he thought, Gilbert was very akin to him. They spoke once. 

“Matthew has done horrible things,” Ivan attempted in the snowy silence, his mind wandering back to Alfred who was asleep in the tent. 

“So have you.”

He conceded the point, understanding that Alfred was a different case: he would have to treat Gilbert not the way he would have wanted to be handled but the way someone else would have to handle him now. So there were no caresses, no words of comfort: Ivan instead handed him weapons, and , slowly, as they waited together over the next month for Matthew to make a move, he gave Gilbert control. 

Ivan left him alone now to clean himself, to relieve himself, and then gradually began to assign him tasks. No one was killed, but Gilbert remained guarded, revealing little about himself, only asking questions. In that area, Ivan was prepared: he had always been very patient. 

Alfred far less so, pushing and pushing with his questions, constantly attempting to reassure by sharing his own tramus in an outpouring of emotion. The young man spoke endlessly about the way Matthew isolated him, about the long days of training re-enforced by constant pain, about the way Matthew pretended to love him— called him family! Little brother!-- the way Matthew made himself into Alfred’s everything while attempting to split the pieces of him he deemed useless away from the perfect soldier. These were details he had not even shared with Ivan. Gilbert bore them with a stoicism Ivan doubted went more than skin deep. 

And so that was his last test: Ivan left them alone, his two demons. And he did not give Alfred the task of captor; he gave Gilbert the task of caretaker.

  
  


_ I’m not a fucking monster _ . He’d never been one. He’d been a soldier. A man— an  _ honorable _ man— protecting something.  _ Working _ for something. So he  _ liked _ power. He enjoyed being known. Pride was his sin. But he wasn’t a monster. Didn’t want to kill, to maim, to be good at violence. It was just a means to an end— all of that. 

Power  _ was _ violence. Fact of life. Under Matthew he’d been efficient, fact, and he’d been very good at it. That was what he liked. Not all the damned blood. 

_ Everyone _ died.

None of that helped him with Alfred. They sat across from each other, alone for the first time since he’d been unbound, and they both knew Gilbert had a better chance now than with Ivan around. Still, Alfred just  _ talked _ — he never stopped talking. Like it was all a big tragedy, and they were victims. 

_ I’m not a victim. I’m biding my time.  _ He’d said _ that _ before. And Alfred was leaning foward now, his stupid sky blue eyes alight, and he kept saying “It’s okay, Gil” between these stories about how Matthew was so good at faking love “You’ll be okay, Gil!” about how Matthew wasn’t really even capable of love “And things will be okay, Gil” about how Matthew  _ lied, _ he always  _ lied _ “Everything will be ok—”

“Stop!” Gilbert snapped. “There is nothing ‘okay’ about how  _ broken _ you are! About how  _ fucking pathetic _ you are! Look— you  _ lost _ , kid! Now you’re living out here in MOTHERFUCKING  _ nowhere _ with  _ another _ monster— and you shouldn’t  _ be _ happy! There is  _ nothing _ good about this sad, broken life so— so STOP! Stop trying to force me to admit that I  _ feel _ pain— I  _ can’t _ feel pain!  _ I _ have a life to return to!  _ I _ have a family!  _ I  _ can’t afford to be weak! I.  _ Can’t _ . Be. Broken.” 

Alfred’s eyes had widened, but he held his ground. “Gilbert,” he said softly. Very softly.  _ Gratingly  _ soft. “You’re still protecting him… that’s how he breaks people, by making you think you’re not.” 

A visceral anger exploded within Gilbert— pure rejection— and he lashed out before the emotion formed into thought. He wasn’t even aware he had backhanded Alfred until his knuckles cleared skin, and he had no time to process the consequences of the action. 

“Alfred—” he began. Blood still boiling, but violence clearing his head. 

The young man growled something in Russian, and Gilbert felt any guilt transform into alarm. “Oh, shit—”

Alfred tackled him, and Gilbert swore again, throwing his arms up to protect his head.  _ If I so much as touch Alfred, Ivan is going to kill me _ . But he was angry— he was so  _ so  _ angry— and he wanted to hurt Alfred, wanted him to regret speaking. Wanted to  _ hurt _ Matthew: could only reach Alfred. 

_ Maybe you’ll shut-up. Maybe you’ll stop being so fucking hopeful. Maybe you’ll feel exactly the way I feel— how you should feel! _

But when he fought back, when he let himself go, he just felt worse. Every time he hit Alfred, he was reminded of how much trauma the kid had already been through.  _ Every time _ he hurt Alfred, pain shot back through him. Alfred  _ already _ felt the way he did: Gilbert  _ knew _ that. Alfred knew him; he  _ knew _ what he was talking about. He knew Matthew. He was— he was  _ right _ . 

_ God damn it! _

He was  _ right _ — Gilbert hated it. He didn’t know if his family was even alive. He didn’t want to know. He was scared. He might  _ never _ know.  _ Never _ get home. And there was not a single. Fucking. Thing. He could do about it. 

He wanted the people he  _ loved _ to know he was okay—

He was not okay. 

He wanted… 

_ Damn it... _

Gilbert gave up. He went limp. And more painful to him than all of the blood drawn were the tears he felt spring into his eyes. 

_ God damn it…. _

Alfred’s lifeless smirk upon pinning him down was lost in a blur. This was it.  _ Matthew’s perfect person. His perfect creation. Not me. Never me.  _

Alfred was laughing. There were hands around his throat now… he closed his eyes. For the first time in over a decade, tears rolled down his face. 

Unfortunately for him, Gilbert wasn’t a monster. 

  
  


Ivan was no fool. He did not allow them much time together before his return. Surprise was not a word precise enough for the scene he encountered. All of the elements of it made enough sense, but they were different than he had assumed they would be. 

<Stop. Now.> Ivan commanded his little one. 

And he did. This was a recent development in their relationship, the consistency of the demon’s obedience. 

<He stopped fighting. Cowards deserve death> he said with an eagerness that Ivan was pleased to hear almost seemed to be seeking approval. 

<Come to me.> With some disappointment, Ivan noted the split lip and the bruising, all the blood discoloring the face he’d worked so hard to keep clean of it. <You are bleeding.> He sighed. 

<I like blood.> Alfred licked his broke lip as if to prove the point. 

Ivan shook his head. <Why?> He asked, and not of that statement, but of the situation. Of the switch.

Alfred scowled, turning his cheek. 

<Ah> Ivan touched the cheech, brushing his finger across a new cut opened across the bone. <He hit you.> Ivan kissed the wound, tasted blood. <He was wrong.>

Hesitation. Then a nod, and Alfred allowed himself to be folded into his lover’s arms. With Alfred secure again, Ivan directed him back towards the corner of the tent where they piled their supplies, suggesting he take care of his wounds, of the blood. 

That left one. Ivan sat himself beside Gilbert’s prone figure. He was crying— a good thing. There were things, unspoken things, that Ivan understood about another’s vulnerability. So he waited until the tears stopped before leaning forward to take Gilbert’s hand. 

Those brilliant red eyes opened as if in a dream; they found Ivan’s face. “... when was the last time someone touched you gently?” he asked. When Ivan only raised an eyebrow, he slowly shook his head. “Matthew… he said that. And he…” 

“When was the last time someone meant it.” Ivan firmly interrupted.

A smile pulled at the edge of Gilbert’s mouth. And he laughed, then, breathless and desperate— a man too tightly wound to sob. His hand gripped Ivan’s like a lifeline, hard enough for his nails to draw blood. 

“I have a brother,” Gilbert said, the words pouring out of him, “a little brother. I have a best friend. I  _ love _ people. I want to go home. I’m tired and I— I’m so fucking  _ dead _ inside.”

Ivan offered the man his other hand. When he took it, Ivan pulled them both to their feet. “I understand,” Ivan said, “and I will take you home.” 

“But, Matthew—” 

“I will find another way. You have changed. There is no reason you should remain a prisoner.” 

“Then—” Gilbert blinked, and there were again tears in his eyes. “Then I’m free. You’d let me leave.”

Ivan smiled a wry smile. “Yes. But I will advise you don’t. We are rather… isolated here. You would need my guidance.” 

“... and that’s your offer?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Gilbert repeated, a steel returning to the echo. “Yes.” 

With tears in his eyes, blood dripping from his face, the bastard had the nerve to smile— a real smile, with fire behind it. Ivan felt again this suffocation, the impossibility of emotion, like physical pain. 

He felt a stab of love. 


	8. Chapter 8

They left the frozen wasteland Ivan had been hiding his demon in— Gilbert was impressed by the speed of the action taken.  _ A good thing _ , he thought,  _ that our line of work had us all carrying fake passports.  _ And, of course, Ivan was right about the place they’d been; he would not have ever made it to the small village the taller man seemed to find on instinct. 

Gilbert also didn’t speak the language— Alfred only  _ half _ did— and neither of them would have known in which direction to take the trains. It felt surreal: seeing other people. Seeing life. Nothing felt real under Matthew, not even when he left, because he was still in the mindset of war. Surviving. For the first time, he was watching life after war.  _ Everyone moved on. Everything moved on.  _

Determined not to let Ivan’s proficiency go to his head, Gilbert made sure to scornfully comment on their progress every so often. When Ivan returned with train tickets and gave them out with a pleased expression, Gilbert shot off, “great. Now we don’t need you anymore.”

The pleased look melted into a look of irritation which made Alfred giggle.  _ Made Alfred happy _ . A smile of satisfaction split his face. 

_ I’m going home… _

They were boarding the train. 

They were moving forward. 

_ Home… Home! _

He was elated,  _ delirious _ — he felt light, stupidly so. All the colors going past out the window, rainbows in snow drifts, felt like they’d been painted there just for his sake. Like no one else had seen them yet. 

Everything was a dream, lucid this time. He walked up and down the train without anyone giving him permission to move. And no one  _ knew _ where he was as he ran his hands across the backs of seats, velvet, and cold glass. He felt these things; he felt them alone.  _ No one to report to _ . 

When he returned, he found Ivan playing cards with Alfred. Again. Gilbert offered Ivan his hand.  _ I’m acting like a fucking idiot. _ It was so bad that the touch of Ivan’s hand— skin on skin— set his nerves so much on fire that his knees almost gave out. 

Ivan’s eyebrows raised. Gilbert couldn’t even be bothered to be embarrassed about his blush.Instead he laughed—  _ laughed! _ \-- wildly before flinging himself back down into his seat. 

“I’ve lost my damn mind!” he said with triumph. 

“Actually, uh, you’re prolly recovering it.” Alfred said. Then he gave Gilbert a sly look. “Did you ever think you’d feel happy again?”

“Alfred!” Gilbert pointed, laughed. “If you ask me another fucking question that you  _ already  _ know the answer to— I’ll kill you!” He slapped the table. “I’ll kill you, Alfred. I’m not under Matthew’s orders to return you anymore— I’m not excusing you being an idiot, just because you’ve made me one!” And then he leaned over to look at the cards in Ivan’s hands. “But I’ll tell you what— I’ll tell you what Ivan’s hand it. Right now.” 

Ivan frowned. “I did not realize you would be so irritating once freed. I might have reconsidered.” 

“Hey, shut-up. Give me your cards.” They were relinquished with little resistance, and Gilbert nodded to himself. “Alright. Time to kick ass.” 

“No way! I’ve had so much practice!” Alfred replied. 

Gilbert cocked his head. “Yeah? Then I want to play with the Russian half.”

Alfred grimaced. “I’m not half Russian…” and he looked to Ivan, who shrugged.

“Little creature, it is your choice.” And Ivan afforded Gilbert a half-amused look. “But I would not help you deal with the consequences.” 

“Is it my ‘choice’?” Alfred sighed. “I don’t think the, uh, the  _ other _ half plays games. Sorry.”

“Fine! I can deal with you either way— square up!” 

And then Gilbert proceeded to lose.  _ No thanks to Ivan being a fucking cheat.  _ Probably. They had played the best three out of five. They hadn’t needed to play more than three. 

And Gilbert found that somewhere during game two when he leaned forward to shout at Alfred— an intimidation tactic that did not work— he feel back against Ivan’s arm. Without meaning to, his mind went back to the nights they hunted, breathing in tandem, and a shiver ran down his spine. 

By the time night came, he hadn’t worn himself down the way he thought the emotion would run its course. The idea of being alone in the dark filled him with such a desperation that he was driven to grasp Alfred’s arm when the two said goodnight. 

“Wait—”

Nothing else needed to be said: they collapsed into one another. Arms wrapping tight and hard, clutching, fingers pulling at fabric. Hot breath on his neck, the taste a moment, of salt, and the scent of sweat that made made Gilbert  _ feel _ again everything Matthew had killed with his touch.  _ I understand, and you understand _ . Unique joy from unique sorrow— held on to each other— afloat. 

“Of course you are allowed,” Ivan was saying, opening up the door to one of the rooms he had rented for the night. He slept in the top bunk. 

Gilbert’s head rested on Alfred’s chest—  _ warm _ — tangled together in blankets, dark. A real bed. A real pillow.  _ Not my cot. Not furs.  _ He couldn’t face touching Ivan yet; Alfred never protested the tightness of his hold. 

Gilbert can’t sleep.  _ Home… _ What  _ was _ home, now? Everything he ever wanted, was it real? Everything keeping him together— was it even there, anymore? Such overwhelming  _ delirious _ joy that might confuse it in the dark for fear… 

_ Ludwig. Francis. My family. Am I dead? Will they want an explanation? Can I re-live… I’m sure I’m dead to them. Dead. Are they— are they worried? Did they grieve? Have they moved past me? Will I— _

He did not sleep. 

  
  


In the morning, Ivan allowed himself a moment of satisfaction with the knowledge that he would not have an uphill battle to access food, water, and warmth before he got out of bed. Then, seeing Gilbert and Alfred curled together like yin and yang, he even allowed himself a rare second moment of satisfaction. They looked more innocent this way that he had ever seen them, and he felt this protective urge that he had not previously known well up within him. A good sign, likely. Perhaps he had wrongly judged them as demons… 

Ivan gently stroked Alfred’s cheek, the touch brining a smile to the smaller man’s lips. Ivan hesitated to do the same to Gilbert. Before he could decide, fingers hovering close enough to feel warmth, those red eyes snapped open. Ivan withdrew. The eyes narrowed. 

“You should be asleep,” Ivan said, and his voice was hardly above a whisper. 

“Likewise,” Gilbert responded in the same tone. 

Ivan shook his head. “Did you sleep at all?” 

And Gilbert’s eyes wandered down to Alfred. “Mmm… aren’t you jealous?” He absently searched Alfred’s face.

No, was the answer to what Gilbert was asking. Ivan changed direction, and he answered a different question. “No.” Ivan knelt down beside the bed so that he would not be looking down on Gilbert. “I am not jealous. Or... is it envious, you meant, in English? Either way. Your confusion, mania, from yesterday— all of the rest until it— I know it.” 

A deep ragged sigh ending in a snort woke Alfred. As he always did when he woke up, he nuzzled further into the nearest set of arms with a soft hum. Gilbert pat his head. 

“Nice, is it not?” Ivan asked.

“It’s…” From Gilbert’s arms, Alfred groaned, murmured something like  _ good morning _ , and Gilbert never finished his sentence. 

“I will get some breakfast. Meet me there.” Ivan straightened up, retrieving his coat and scarf. “It will be a nice change of pace: coffee.”

“Tea!” Alfred almost headbutted Gilbert sitting up. 

“Of course, pet.” The door clicked shut behind him. And, as he was anticipating, he ordered himself a black coffee before anything else. A third moment of satisfaction. The day was one of unprecedented happiness. Again, Ivan was reaffirmed in his choices. Pleased, even, to use a strong word. Hot steam, carrying a familiar smell, tickled his nose, warmed his cheeks; he hadn't shaved in a long time, and he had more of a beard now than he'd ever allowed himself before. 

While his eyes were still closed, someone bundled into the space next to him, working under his arm. A small smile stole onto his face and his opened one eye. "Hello, little one," he said to Alfred, "I ordered you a tea, as requested." 

"Ohhh~ my knight in shining armor," Alfred hummed in response. Ivan was pleased to hear confidence ironing the stutter from his voice. Pleased: he was over doing it. His arm tightened around Alfred's shoulders. 

"Stop being cute this God damn early." Gilbert slid into the seat across from the two. 

"I think you will be less angry when you learn to join," Ivan said, rather deadpan, and he enjoyed the look of rage that habitually flashed across Gilbert's face before being immediately followed by a way smile. 

"You know Ivan, you've been hitting on me an awful lot while I'm vulnerable, that's shady as hell—" 

Alfred was brought his tea, and he lit up. Likewise, Gilbert received a black coffee. Ivan motioned at the cream and sugar. "I did not know how you enjoyed it." 

Gilbert raised the mug to his face, and something akin to pain twisted his features when he smelled it. "I like it with—" he began, but stopped himself, grimacing. "-- I like it sweet." And as if to demonstrate, he fixed his own coffee. 

Ivan watched the movements carefully; when Gilbert finished, he reached out, setting a hand over the dead white hand on the mug. "I will endeavour to remember." 

For a second time since they'd met, the touch did not inspired the characteristic narrowing of eyes Ivan learned to expect, but instead that same blush from yesterday. Pleased, this time, was not too strong an expression. Ivan leaned back. "You two are in charge of ordering something to eat." 

While they argued over the "best choice" on the menu, Ivan sipped his coffee, absentmindedly rubbing circles on Alfred's shoulder. In his mind's eye, he imagined the way Matthew must look, so that he could also imagine the things he would do to him once he found him. Eventually, pancakes topped in fruit found their way to the table. A good choice after so much meat, he thought, to have something with sugar. And something so warm. 

After they ate a breakfast, funny how quickly things became a novelty after surviving, they returned to sitting in the passenger cars. It had been a full night and day of riding. Gilbert knew they were fast approaching, Ivan could see that in the way he wound himself up, the way his sentences shortened, and the way he packed back his emotions in preparation for the worst. None of that, Ivan felt, was very helpful, even in the face of the uncertainty Gilbert must be feeling. 

They crossed the border into Germany, and Gilbert stopped speaking all together. Despite Alfred's attempts at jokes, he only gave a single address. They had to switch trains to get to that specific region, and on the newer train Ivan switched sides: this time, he took a seat next to Gilbert. 

"You are not alone," Ivan said softly, imagining he was responding almost directly to the thoughts in the other man's head. With a calculated gentleness, Ivan laid an arm across Gilbert's shoulders. "You will not be alone." 

There was a moment where Ivan thought that he had perhaps moved too quickly, and misread the current situation, but then Gilbert leaned into his side. Without losing the intensity of his expression, without speaking, the albino man allowed Ivan to hold him. Alfred smiled slightly, but he knew enough not to call attention to Gilbert's willingness to be comforted for fear of alienation. Instead, he filled the silence with mindless chatter about how he had never before visited Germany, about the landscape flashing by. 

To get to the specific address that Gilbert had given, they had to leave the train and take a bus for a period of time. This was the shortest leg of the journey. It was odd, Ivan felt, to feel such tension in his chest for the sake of understanding another man. When did he begin to empathize with people? When did he begin to take on pain that was not his own, as if he did not already carry enough? 

At the end of the line, Gilbert gave one single instruction. "I just want to see," he told the other two. Ivan understood the operation. They would stake out the targets first, in assurance of their very existence. 

The house was some distance from the others, a cuter affair than Ivan would have pictured for Gilbert, though as well manicured. There was no explanation offered as to why this house, why this address, and no one demanded one. The sight of the house seemed to almost relax Gilbert, and Ivan understood that feeling as the calm that would settle over him before the inevitability of his missions, no matter his other feelings. 

Each of them had practiced surveillance without being seen. It was a little more difficult together, but they certainly weren't amateurs. 

When a young man with auburn hair emerged from the house, singing to himself, Gilbert closed his eyes; Ivan felt his heart break. He was reaching out to touch him before another man exited the house, and Ivan's hand froze, suspended. This one was blond; he looked a good deal like Gilbert. The hand came down to nudge Gilbert's shoulder, to get his eyes open. 

Upon seeing the blond man, Gilbert leaned forward, a feverish intensity lighting within him. A number of emotions flashed across his face before settling on a tight smile, almost a grimace for his holding back tears. Below them, the two men embraced, they kissed, they laughed even, and the blond was smiling. Ivan took Gilbert's hand, and Alfred took the other. 

He let his tears fall. 


	9. Chapter 9

“I already gave you my fucking answer,” Gilbert said over a mug of coffee, one that Ivan had ordered sweet, the way he’d made it on the train. “And don’t you dare ask if I’m sure, or I’ll do it alone.” 

“I wasn’t contradicting you, I was simply offering perspective you may have been lacking. I respect your choice, Gilbert,” Ivan responded, pushing away his own plate. 

“I mean, I was gonna ask if you were sure ‘cause, uh, I’m not even sure, dude,” Alfred had gotten pie. 

“_ You _ shouldn’t be,” Gilbert raised a brow. “Because you might try to kill _ us _ on his behalf. _ I _ won’t do that. If anything, that means I’m more sure.” And he didn't look at Ivan, he kept his eyes on Alfred, when he tossed out a quick, “Ivan needs me.” 

He doubted that. But he can see Ivan shift across the table, hear him sigh. “Yes. I do.” _ Is that a lie? _It wasn't not one Gilbert was going to call out. 

“Damn straight.” Gilbert leaned back, crossing his legs under the table, ankle on his knee, other hand resting on the opposite knee. "So we've got to get going then." 

"Yeah, I've been telling you that. But you're so soft, and you 'need to eat', and you 'need sugar', and—" 

Ivan scoffed. "You are thinking of Alfred." But he was also smiling to himself. 

Again, as they travelled, it was only Gilbert who knew where they were going. They reboarded the train and headed in a new direction, towards something that Gilbert feared considerably less. Something that he _ should _ have feared. In all honesty, he felt almost nothing. Just tired. 

The worst thing he could imagine in facing Matthew was death, or the deaths of his new… _ friends _. It felt deeper than that, but were they— 

Gilbert wasn't afraid of death. Ivan and Alfred could take care of themselves. Besides, and the thought almost made him laugh, he didn't think _ anything _ was capable of killing Ivan. Not even a force like Matthew. 

Maybe Ivan just made him feel… _fuck_ _when did I start acting like a little bitch. _But, arms crossed, tucked against Ivan, resting his head against his chest, half asleep, the thought brought him only warm amusement. This time the sound of the train underneath them, the rumbling of it underneath the rumbling of Ivan's voice as he played some game with Alfred, lulled him. His heart beat soft, steady; his thoughts floated. 

_ Ludwig is safe. Ludwig is happy. Ludwig will be there when I come back. My family is alive. My family is… _

Gilbert was woken by Ivan lifting him into his arms with an insulting ease. He protested a minute— obligated to. "I know how to walk, asshole!" 

And Ivan raised one eyebrow. "Go back to sleep." 

"Carry me, too!" Alfred scooted out from the train booth seat. 

Ivan opened his mouth a moment and should have pointed out the _ situation _, the smallness of the aisle, maybe, but then he abruptly smiled and said, "all right." 

Gilbert's eyes widened slightly. "Now, hey, wai—"

Ivan tossed Gilbert over a shoulder and bent down a moment to lift Alfred up with his other arm. Gilbert assumed that Alfred wrapped his arms around Ivan's neck, but, ya know, he _ didn't fucking know _because he couldn't see. 

"You are a ridiculous person, Ivan." Gilbert punched the back of his leg. Heard a soft grunt. 

"Do not do that, Gilbert." Ivan said, proceeding forward. "The two of you are not so heavy apart. But you are unwieldy together. I would hate to crush you." 

Ivan deposited them into a bed together. "Now be good, demons." 

"Demons?" Gilbert laughed once. "Right. Is that what you think of us as?" 

The silence in response was a little too long. Gilbert was about to retort again, but then Ivan leaned down and touched his cheek with the back of his hand in a way that made him bite his tongue. 

"Not anymore." Ivan said. 

Alfred wrapped his arms around Gilbert. He was beginning to think they had a conspiracy to keep him cuddled now that he'd given in to it. _ Absolute bastards. _

"We will be there in the morning. Get some rest." And Ivan disappeared into the top bunk. The lights went off. 

Gilbert rolled over so that he was facing Alfred. Breath warm in the intimate space, foreheads almost touching. "Are you scared? To see him again?" Gilbert whispered. 

"No…" Alfred's arm draped over Gilbert's midsection. Hands interlaced between them. "I was but, uh, I guess? I just don't care anymore. He made me feel so alone. Like he was everything. But I'm _ not _ alone anymore. I have Ivan. I have you, too." 

Gilbert squeezed Alfred's hand. "I know what you mean." 

"Your brother is alive." 

"I have you too, Alfred." 

A soft laugh. Tired. Gilbert felt that. He added, "I'm ready to be done with this." 

"Yeah…" Alfred took a deep breath. "Me too. I just wanna be free. I wanna be, to be whole again." 

Gilbert drew Alfred into his arms and held him the way that he was held their last night on the train. "You will be." He kissed Alfred's curls. "_ We _ will be." 

Ivan was growing tired of walking such long distances. The place that Gilbert took them was, to put it in easily understood terms, "off the beaten path." He had anticipated this to be the case, but he felt he had spent enough time in the past year walking across the wilderness to be set for a lifetime. He did not imagine he would take up hiking, were he to survive this. 

Gilbert stopped them at a fence that might have been otherwise missed for the vines. "This is the south of the compound. I don't know how to infiltrate. I always entered through a gate west of here. And," dry amusement, "I was always taken. I never walked here. I had rendezvous points in cities." 

Ivan had considered this, while they walked. "You said your code was likely to raise suspicions, entered after your failure. I agree. We did, however, consider Alfred. Seeing this place, I would reiterate." 

Gilbert nodded, once. "Right…" They both looked at Alfred, and Ivan read in Gilbert's critical look, and reluctance to immediately state it, what his next request was going to be. 

"His flipped side would be a stronger incentive to draw Matthew out," Ivan conceded without waiting for him to say it. 

"Can you control it that well?" Gilbert asked. 

Ivan shrugged. "What other choice do we have?" And he stood in front of Alfred, looked him up and down. He set a hand on his throat. Alfred just laughed. 

"I don't think that's going to work anymore!" Alfred tilted his head, blue eyes sparkling. "I trust you too much, at this point." 

Ivan dropped his hand from Alfred's throat, and he felt a warm glow. "I suppose that is my fault." 

"Oh, for the love of—" Gilbert stepped up and slapped Alfred across the face, which, from a man who had never allowed himself the expression for his own pain, caused Ivan to flinch. 

Alfred's face transformed instantly, but Ivan was there to catch him by the shoulders before he could try to attack Gilbert. <Listen to me, little one. I have someone for you to kill.> 

Alfred met his eyes, scowled. <I should be killing you. I should be killing the offender.> 

<Kill Matthew, and I will be pleased.> Ivan responded, leaning into his instincts about this persona. <Kill Matthew, and you will have overcome the one who made you.> 

Hesitation. That was a good thing from the demon. <Pleased?> He repeated. 

Ivan cupped the back of his head, bending down to kiss Alfred with some force, biting his lip just hard enough to taste blood. When he pulled back, Alfred's eyes were alight with a manic delight. <Kill Matthew?> 

<Yes. Follow my instructions.> 

Ivan gave Alfred a breakdown on how to approach the gate and call for Matthew. He asked that Alfred request he be met outside. Alone. Which, of course, was a request that he did not think would be followed. If Matthew requested that Alfred go inside, or attempted to send others out to secure him, Ivan had told him to retreat. 

It was going to be something of a miracle if Alfred followed all of those instructions. They had nothing to do but wait and see. Beside him, Gilbert had the look of a soldier before charging into battle. It was a certiant calm that Ivan knew well. 

"We might very well be killed," Ivan told him. "Do you have any regrets?" 

Gilbert gave a half smile, and if he had not spoken Ivan would have understood what he was communicating when he said, "none that matter now." 

"Kiss me." Ivan did not review the words before they came out of his mouth. He did not take the time to screen them, or to turn them over and judge them. 

"No regrets, and all that?" Gilbert's half-smile had become a smirk. "Come here." 

Ivan came to him; he bent down to meet Gilbert where he was. His lips were chapped. They held together for a moment, and it was a gentle kiss, the opposite of how he had pinned Alfred down at the beginning. He wished they could have started like this… Ivan pulled back an inch. 

"You taste like blood," Gilbert remarked, his eyes still closed, his cheeks flushed. 

Ivan brushed his hair from his forehead, and Gilbert opened his eyes. "I will not always," he promised. 

Before Gilbert could respond, they heard people approaching. Instantly, the two pulled upright, their guns at the ready. From the brush, two figures. Ivan knew the form of his lover, the slight build and the curls. The other one, tall and pale, his hair pulled back, wearing red flannel and worn jeans, he did not know. 

"Well. Isn't this interesting?" Matthew asked, a hand on Alfred's shoulder, Alfred's gun dangling between his fingers. "This isn't exactly what I was anticipating. And that doesn't happen often." 


	10. Chapter 10

_ That voice. That fucking voice.  _ Gilbert felt it in his bones, he felt it in the core of his being. The warmth of that fucking voice. And he wasn't angry. He still wasn't angry. Instead he felt… longing. A sense of longing that kept him from pulling the trigger immediately. From even attempting it. 

"You must be Matthew." Ivan's voice snapped him out of it. Immediately, Gilbert felt disgust. 

_ How could I be so weak… how could I still want anything from him? God. Fuck.  _ "Let Alfred go." He tried to keep his voice controlled.  _ I am controlled.  _

"He's not under any more obligation to be by my side than you are to return to me, Gil." Matthew was standing behind Alfred so that making a clear shot would be tricky. "But here you both are yet again." 

He smiled then, as though he were pleased with them. A soft smile that crinkled around his eyes. And Gilbert felt… proud. 

With a scowl, he pushed the feeling down and instead made eye contact with Alfred. 

“You better snap the fuck out of it, kid!” Gilbert shouted— not meaning to shout— “Or I’ll shoot  _ through _ you!”

“No.” Ivan rested a hand on Gilbert’s gun, indicating he should drop it.  _ Maybe he noticed the tremor. _ More likely, he couldn’t risk the bluff.

“Ah, Gilbert, you’d let him command you? You’d allow another person to use—”

Ivan stepped between them. “You are no longer speaking to him. You are speaking to me.”

“You’ve really fallen so low as to let another person fight your battle?” There was disgust in his voice now and it stung. It shouldn't have.  _ It’s a tactic. A fucking tactic.  _ That didn’t make it sting any less. 

“He is not going to be listening to you.” Ivan’s voice was, as always, the end of the line. Something Gilbert could hold on to.

“He can’t mean that, can he Gilbert?” Soft again. “Do you think he can love you the way that I do?” Softer still.

_ No. Nothing like you. Not ever like you. _ As if he didn’t have to dig his heels in not to lean towards that softness. He would have fallen into Ivan. 

Silence. Alfred had not moved from Matthew’s side. Might as well have stopped breathing. Gilbert had never seen those blue eyes so flat. He wondered if that was the way he looked when he was in the same position.  _ Fuck, kid. _

“Very well then.” Matthew drew up his shoulders, to his full height, and a less-than-pleasant look slipped through the cracks. 

“Now we are somewhere. Drop your gun, and I will fight you man to man.” 

Matthew laughed. This bright and piercing laugh that held no sincerity. No warmth. Then he smiled. Not one Gilbert had ever seen. A wolf’s smile. 

“Fuck you, Ivan.” 

They had less than a minute. 

Gilbert pivoted first. He was pushing Ivan to the ground before the gun in Matthew’s hand was aimed. Rolling behind a tree trunk the moment the first retort echoed.

Ivan recovered with a shocking speed as well, bouncing from the ground to charge Matthew. Who fired again. He didn’t miss at that range. There was no way he missed at that range. Ivan didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.

Matthew’s eyes widened for a split second before he shoved Alfred between them. 

Ivan caught Alfred. Gilbert saw Matthew adjust his arm to fire through both of them. He was ready. The moment he’d had a chance, he’d lined up. 

Training: Matthew’s training.

Two shots. One in the leg. One higher. Unfortunately for Matthew— Gilbert never missed. Fortunately for Matthew— Gilbert had been effectively shaped. Neither shot was fatal. The shots in response missed both Ivan and Alfred, as he stumbled back. 

When he regained his footing, those violet eyes found the source of the shots quickly. The blood blossoming against his otherwise clean work clothes. Then, again. He laughed.

“Why are you so angry with me, Gil! I really don’t get it! It isn’t  _ my _ fault you’re here anymore than it is yours! Just had back luck, really, about where you were born and when! I could just as easily have been you! The only difference between us is that I’m not— what are we supposed to do with that? If you were me, and I was you, you’d do just the same thing. That has nothing to do with  _ me _ ! I can’t fix the whole world for you, Gilbert! You need to  _ let it go _ .”

The gun was now aimed at him. A finger wrapped around the trigger. Gilbert felt frozen.

“And wish for better luck next time around.” 

Ivan slugged him. Clear off his feet. Instantly, Gilbert surged to his feet. Ran to Ivan. Aimed his gun down. Matthew groaned, gingerly opening and closing his jaw. 

“What is it going to  _ take _ , Ivan?” He sounded more tired than in the pain Gilbert so desperately wanted. “Alfred!” 

The kid responded instantly. Was before Gilbert and kicking.  _ Damn, kid, I can’t—  _ He didn’t take any shots. He fell back. 

And then. To his frustration. Ivan did not move. He let his arms fall to his sides the second Alfred turned on him. 

“ _ What _ are you  _ doing _ ?!” Gilbert demanded. 

“Trust me.” Ivan made everything sound simple.  _ Trust me _ . 

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” 

“Trust me.”

“I can’t trust you to be  _ rational _ when it’s him, you—”

“I love you.” 

All the gravity of his world shifted to one focal point. 

“Trust me,” Ivan repeated. 

And what choice did he have? 

  
  


Ivan had made a promise. He would not ever again be responsible for spilling Alfred’s blood. He could not ever again be the one who Alfred thought of when tending to a wound. 

So he allowed the blows, the kicks; he allowed the targeting of the place where Matthew had succeeded in hitting him, carving a furrow into the muscle and flesh of his side to expose the smallest white gleam of rib. This was still Alfred— despite it all— not the demon he had superimposed for so many months to ease his conscience. 

<Alfred.> He spoke tenderly. <Come back to me, little one.>

He had just told Gilbert he loved him, and he did not intend for those to be his last words on the subject. Dying, he reasoned, was also something that would cause Alfred an unacceptable amount of pain, whether he was aware of that now. For the first time in his life, Ivan was determined that he deserved better than he was receiving. 

Matthew was not attempting to stand, nor attempting to do anything but speak— his words were dead to Ivan’s ears, whose focus was currently unbreakable. Ivan was bleeding, the bright color kissing each of Alfred’s split knuckles: red inseparable from red: this senselessness would end here. He was going to make sure of that, and he was going to do more than survive it. 

So Ivan bleed and Alfred drank it in, all filled up with violence— and Ivan found that he had hope. 

<Alfred, my light. My angel. My love.>

If it were any other group of people, they would not have noticed the slight movement of Matthew’s hand, the cocking of his head— motioning to the gun he’d lost when Ivan kicked him back. Matthew might have heard Gilbert’s sharp intake of breath that most certainly meant his finger was tensing on that trigger. Too late , though, to prevent a thing: Alfred had gotten the signal, and Ivan had given his orders regarding that matter. 

Laughter like bubbles rising up in the tasteless champagne they toasted Ivan with for every mission he completed, like every golden grin behind another suitcase of money he did not need. 

<Kill him, little brother> In Russian, Matthew’s voice blended into a sea of others, of hundreds:  _ kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.  _ If there was such a thing as karma, facing the barrel of a gun held by his lover would be it. Yet, his shoulders never tensed, his hands never raised up in defense, even despite the burning he felt from Gilbert, who would undoubtedly be next should he fail.

After all, he had stopped living the life he should be punished for entirely. The relaxation was not his own, nor the feeling of hope native to his heart. 

<Kill me, if you must.> Ivan’s voice betrayed nothing. <It is yours to take.>

Hesitation, a spark in those sky blue eyes, the flicker of pupils between the man lying behind him and the one standing before him. 

<You would lie down and die for me so easily, dog?> Alfred growled. 

Ivan closed the distance between them, pressed that gun to his chest where it could not miss. As always, there was a finality to his stance; his eyes were as the setting sun. 

<Anything.> 

A crisp wind. 

Blood soaking through fabric. 

Steady heartbeat.

Leaves resulting. 

_ I am in love,  _ Ivan finally had the audacity to think,  _ with being alive. _

And Alfred flinched. The barrel of the gun dipped: Ivan seized it, pulling it from his hand, his other arm wrapping around his waist to pull him against his chest. 

“You have lost.” He told Matthew, nothing else to it but the simple existence of that fact. 

“Ah,” Matthew let his head call back against the hard packed dirt. “That’s the life we lead.” 

“No. Not anymore.” The sight of the gun rested between those gentle violet eyes. “Last words?” 

“I…” Those eyes drifted up, away from impending death, up and towards a brilliant and cloudless sky. They closed. “... was just saying, I felt I’d earned a rest.” 

Ivan did not insult Gilbert by asking him to turn away. 


	11. Epilogue

_ You son of a bitch— I’ve got you now!  _ Gilbert swung around the corner with a shout and found—

Nothing. 

“Wait, what—”

Arms wrapped around his torso and lifted him clean off the ground, legs kicking wildly. “No!  _ No! _ How?!”

Alfred twisted around, manically laughing, and threw Gilbert a good ways across their living room, so that he bounced off of the couch before rolling onto the rug below. 

“You’ve underestimated me for the last time! Prepare to die!” Alfred pounced, but  _ this time _ Gilbert was ready, having grabbed a pillow from the couch. 

“Ah ha! Fuck you!” Gilbert swung wildly at Alfred, using the laughter to aim. “You want to go? You want _this_? What are you even trying to do— agh— ow— HEY! I’m  _ not even ticklish  _ you—  _ you’re _ the one that’s ticklish— and now I’m reminded of  _ your _ weakness!”

_ Mwhahahahahaha _ — Gilbert wrestled himself out from under Alfred, tickling his side strategically so that he would jump, yelping, and his grip on Gilbert would weaken. Just enough. 

“Ah! Not going to be that easy!” Alfred tried, attempting to kick him and being easily routed. “It’s not gonna— ah!--  _ Stop _ — I am a  _ highly _ trained—  _ Giiiiilllll _ — I’m probably a—  _ No feet! No FEET!”  _

Finally, Gilbert managed to get on top of Alfred, flashing him a wicked grin. “That’s not even your  _ biggest  _ weakness and we both know it.”

Alfred’s eyes widened, and he made several threats in rapid-fire Russian of which Gilbert only caught every other word. 

“Save it. You shouldn’t have picked a fight you knew you couldn’t win.” 

“I  _ was  _ winning— I was until you started cheat _ ing _ —  _ ahghk _ !”

Gilbert sank his teeth into the soft spot where muscle met throat. Like he was being murdered, Alfred screamed.  _ Like he doesn’t enjoy this _ . Under his body, Alfred bucked his hips. Gilbert scoffed. 

“What’s that thing you said about cowboys and riding—”

“For  _ me _ !” Alfred tried to get a hand in Gilbert’s hair. “ _ I’m _ the cowboy, you fucking—”

Another bite; Alfred’s hand fell limply to his side. “ _ God _ —”

“Good boy.” Gilbert’s tone was unmistakably mocking. 

“I’ll kill you—” Alfred had gotten ahold of the pillow Gilbert used earlier and was now trying to knock him off one-handed. 

“What? Kill? I heard  _ fucking _ —”

“Please do not fuck on this rug.” Ivan had soundlessly entered. “I just bought this rug. It would not be polite.”

“You say that like we didn’t help you at all!” Alfred protested from below Gilbert. 

“Mmm.” Ivan set down three mugs of hot chocolate on the table they'd pushed aside when Alfred had first issued the challenge. “That is why it is much uglier than it had the potential to be.”

They both gasped dramatically, as if deeply wounded. Gilbert pulled the pillow from Alfred’s hand. 

“Jinx.”

“Bitch.” Alfred wasn’t always creative. 

“You owe me—”

Ivan stepped over them to sit on the couch, and Gilbert ducked his head. “Play nice.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes “-- a kiss. To be even.”

“Hmmmm— deal.” Alfred leaned up, and Gilbert met him in a kiss.  _ He’s always so damn warm… _ They relaxed enough that Alfred could sit up, shifting Gilbert into his lap, arms moving loosely around his waist. 

“Mmmmmm…” Gilbert allowed the kiss to deepen another minute before he pulled back. 

“Thanks, big guy!” Alfred then said— to Ivan, probably. For the hot chocolate, probably.

In one deft movement, he stood, sweeping Gilbert up into his arms and then depositing him into Ivan’s lap. 

“Hello, snowflake,” Ivan muttered. 

_ No. _ “I told you to find something else to call me.”

Ivan kissed his cheek, Alfred pulling the table back into place. 

“Well,” he murmured, hot breath setting the tips of Gilbert’s ears on fire. “You did not like  _ kitten  _ either.” 

“ _ I _ liked kitten!” Alfred wrapped his hands around his mug, settling down against the pair of them. 

“I will kill you both. Hand me mine.” 

Alfred obeyed. “Do you want yours, too, big guy?” 

“In a moment. I want, for now, to hold you both.” 

Again— Gilbert rolled his eyes, but he also nuzzled Ivan’s chin, felt the stubble there. Sighed deeply. Felt, in a way he had never felt before, at peace. At home. 

_ God, when did I get so sentimental…? _

  
  


Ivan watched Gilbert spin around once again, in the arms of a French man he insisted he’d known for years, and he considered being jealous— that is, pretending to, for the sake of how much Gilbert seemed to enjoy his playing at being possessive. Maybe he could demand just how close they were, as if the flush of Gilbert’s cheeks were more than alcohol, his laughter more than the joy of finding an old friend alive at the end of a war. This would come later, of course, after the reception was done, and Gilbert’s brother and his new husband were long gone. If Gilbert was asleep by then… they could always wait another day. Or even yet another day beyond that: they had nothing but time now— nothing but days, and days.

“Hey!” Alfred appeared by his side once more, a bright smile on his face. “You’re smiling! You have a great smile. I  _ love _ it when you smile.” 

The young man hardly stuttered anymore, ironed out by comfort, and confidence, and  _ time _ . No more long pauses and downcast eyes: they had been filled by trust, lifted in a hundred gentle touches. 

“I am watching our kitten.” 

“Ohhh, don’t let him hear you say that!” Alfred had also been drinking, and it struck Ivan how easily his smaller lovers seemed to become intoxicated. “He is cute, tho, huh? Like Feliciano— whatever his last name is now! Well, not like… that at all, but like…” He trailed off, staring at Gilbert, before snapping his fingers. “Hey! Let’s dance!”

Ivan had known this would be coming. “I do not—”

“ _ I  _ know you’re light on your feet!” Alfred pulled on his arm. “Please, please, please,  _ please _ —”

When had Ivan ever said no to him? 

“Yes. Alright. Do not expect too much.” Ivan stood, and he let Alfred lead him onto the dance floor. 

What they did was not so much dancing as it was moving together; Ivan spinning him when he insisted he be spun, always out of time with the rhythm. When the song ended, he could see Francis attempt to dip Gilbert and instead drop him in a heap of laughter, his arms waving. Ivan responded in kind, easily accomplishing their failed feat with Alfred, who laughed his delight, sky blue eyes widening. 

Ivan could have fallen into those eyes forever— impossible and infinite eyes— but the laughter bubbled up around him and kept him afloat. 

“Oh ho, hooo— Someone has to stop you showing off!” Gilbert shouted, climbing back onto his feet, smacking away Francis’ attempts to help him. “You fucking…” He steadied himself. 

Ivan reached out a hand expectantly, but Gilbert surprised him by snatching up Alfred instead. 

“I can— whoa— I can—” Gilbert almost toppled over again, this time with Alfred in tow whose bright laugh marked a high note in the music. 

Of course, Ivan caught them. Held them both tightly against his chest for a moment. 

“Very silly,” he commented. At a loss for words that could mean what he was trying to say. 

Gilbert’s nose wrinkled at the same time Alfred beamed. Francis slapped him on the back. 

“Agh, mon cher! You do know, we had our  _ doubts _ you would ever date  _ anyone _ ! Let alone two of them!” 

“Because you thought I was dead?” Gilbert snapped back, leaning into Ivan as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“Pffffftttt— well! That certainly did not  _ help _ your case, but it was not  _ much _ worse, odds-wise, if I am honest!”

“Excuse me, how many boyfriends do  _ you _ have here?!” Gilbert missed his counter-strike, his arm a few inches too short. 

Above them, soft lights twinkled against the deep purple of a setting sun. Piano music danced under the slender fingers of a man who had almost reacted to Gilbert’s arrival by slapping him, but instead broke down in tears. Weaving into the music, the voice of a man nearly identical to one of the grooms— the gentleness of the Italian lyrics contradicting his insistence that he didn’t want to be there. In front of them, Ludwig bowed to Feliciano as if they were perfect strangers having their first dance. 

And it was funny, Ivan thought, the way people told each other love stories. 


End file.
